


We Don't Talk

by MeldeBaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Freak, Friendship, Gen, Just Friendship, Relationships are Difficult, Talking, a teeny bit of snuggling, whether people talk or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:26:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeldeBaggins/pseuds/MeldeBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After some choice comments from Sally, Sherlock finds himself wondering about his relationship with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Talk

Sherlock paced another circle around his room, his mind turning over recent events. He’d made it home hours ago, and John might start to worry if he holed up in here too long without screaming with boredom or making something explode. But this matter was too important not to devote intense study to it. He _had_ to figure this out.

 

* * *

 

_Sherlock had nipped down to the yard for a quick case, just turning over the results he’d gotten from burning up part of an oven mitt and a knife handle. After that, the case had been easy, so he wanted to swan for Lestrade just a bit before returning home to swan for John._

_Upon arriving at the Yard, however, he was intercepted by Sally Donovan, who held out an expectant hand for his results._

_“I’m here to see Inspector Lestrade,” he intoned regally._

_“He’s busy. Hand it over, Freak.”_

_“Not too busy for a solved case, I presume?”_

_“No, he’s on the phone with his wife, and it’s going well for once, so you can just hand off your results to me, and I’ll see he gets them.”_

_Sherlock swayed in place as he considered this, but before he could make a decision one way or another, Sally was continuing._

_“You know, talking, like normal people do. Like married persons do in order to keep their relationship from falling apart.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re implying.”_

_“No wonder. You couldn’t communicate with a normal person if you tried, much less your boyfriend. It’s only a matter of time before he gets so frustrated with you he walks out. Seeing other people, is he?”_

_Sherlock shoved his notes at her, with the command, “Make sure these get to Inspector Lestrade intact. I wouldn’t want the murderer to walk free despite my best efforts because you couldn’t manage to pass off a few documents.”_

_And with that, he swirled out of the Yard, his mind whirring at a thousand miles an hour, working on this new conundrum._

* * *

 

Sherlock returned from dropping off his results at the yard, but John was surprised when, instead of giving him a theatrical presentation of the denouement of the case, he ghosted into his room and remained quietly in there for almost four hours. John knew better than to impose himself on a Sherlock in need of solitude, and so remained unworried about his friend’s state of mind, resolving to wait until dinner-time to check on him.

He had been seated on the sofa, innocently browsing the internet on his laptop, when Sherlock suddenly plopped onto the cushion next to him and fixed him with a gaze of intensity.

“We don’t talk.”

John looked up, taking in Sherlock’s earnest expression and body language. “Of course we do. Well, I do. But you never do deign to get the milk, do you?”

Sherlock ignored the playful jibe, shifting closer in one movement that could almost be called a “bounce.” “But we don’t talk about _things_.”

John blinked. “Did you… have a _thing_ you wanted to talk about?”

Green-blue eyes bored into John’s soul. (And Sherlock said he didn’t have a gift for description.) “What things do _people_ talk about?”

“Since when did you care what people talk about?”

“Fine, what do _friends_ talk about?”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“You won’t answer any of my questions!”

“You won’t give me enough to go on to answer them!”

Sherlock crossed his arms and pressed back against the arm of the sofa, glaring at the mantelpiece.

John carefully closed the laptop on his knees, set it on the coffee table, and scooched incrementally closer to Sherlock. When the detective looked suspiciously up at him, he moved yet a little closer and reached up to twist a lock of Sherlock’s hair in his fingers. At the death glare he received, he gave the curl a short tug once or twice, trying not to grin at the whimper that escaped his flatmate. When Sherlock tried to ignite the fireplace with his death-ray vision, John tried a different tack, gently easing his fingers over the offended area and gradually the rest of Sherlock’s scalp.

“Stoppit,” Sherlock said, sounding as though anything of the sort would be met with a pout.

John grinned and continued his ministrations, murmuring, “Now, about that question…”

“You wouldn’t answer,” Sherlock replied, his voice bordering on relaxed now.

“I’ll answer when you tell me what’s wrong.”

When Sherlock finally spoke, all he said was, “People talk.”

“Since when do you care what people say?”

“Since… I am not skilled in the art of friendship.”

“Understatement of the year,” John said without malice. Sherlock, however, stared all the more intensely at the fireplace, expression carefully schooled into blankness. “Sherlock,” John prompted, fingers still gently smoothing through dark locks.

“I don’t talk to you enough.”

John blinked. “Now who put that bloody idiotic idea in your mind?”

Sherlock again didn’t answer, eyes closing as he leaned into John’s touch.

John sighed. “Was it Donovan or Anderson?”

“…Donovan.”

“What did she say?”

“That… I couldn’t hold a normal conversation with another human being if I tried, and that… such things are necessary to… friendships.”

“I’m assuming you’re censoring that quite a bit.”

“Well, you never do seem to like it when plebeians assume we’re ‘together’.” Sherlock’s voice had lowered to a tentative whisper.

John chuckled at that. “Well, the ‘plebeians’ can go jump in the Thames for all I care.” When Sherlock’s only reply was to move a little closer (to the point where John could almost call it snuggling), John continued. “Donovan doesn’t know pittance about friendships, least of all ours. We can talk however much or however little we want, and it won’t change a thing between us. I am your _friend_ , Sherlock, and you’re not going to lose me.”

The relieved slump of Sherlock’s shoulders told John that he had once again cut to the heart of the matter and set Sherlock’s overactive mind at ease.

It was exactly thirty seconds later that Sherlock slithered to his feet without a word, dashing off to begin (or perhaps continue) an experiment involving the thumbs in the crisper and the oranges John had just bought at the store.

John smiled to himself and picked up his laptop again. This might not make it onto his blog (wouldn’t dare give Sally the satisfaction), but he did have a half-finished case post that could do with some embellishing, especially with regards to how their absolutely-perfect-the-way-it-is communication had been a key factor in its resolution.


End file.
